


A Light Troubled By Smoke

by temperamental_mistress



Series: A Shower of Sparks [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Era, Concussions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10009454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: Enjolras looked to Prouvaire, who was nearest to the door. He would not risk all of their lives on the assumption that this was not a trap. Bahorel could easily have a policeman prodding him in the back, though it would be uncharacteristic of him to come so quietly. He held his breath as the poet lifted the latch, but it was only a moment before the door was flung wide.Bahorel was not alone.





	

Enjolras set his pen down and rubbed at his eyes. It had been a long day, but (Grantaire’s waste of a visit to the Barrière du Maine notwithstanding) it had been a productive one. He rolled his shoulders to relieve the dull ache that had settled between them and let his eyes wander the room.

Feuilly and Grantaire were conferring in a corner about the possible artistic applications of magic. Prouvaire divided his attention between this conversation and helping Joly study. Beneath the table, Bossuet was picking up the remnants of the glass he had knocked to the floor.

Two among their number had yet to return. Combeferre and Bahorel had not been sent far — indeed, theirs had been among the destinations closest to the Musain. Combeferre’s absence was hardly a surprise. To send him to the Polytechnic was to invite an extended philosophical debate, but Enjolras had believed it worth the risk. Who better to relate to the cloistered students than an alumnus? Bahorel, on the other hand, had a history of surprise encounters with the police, so any extended absence was a cause for concern.

Enjolras fingered the ends of his hair absentmindedly as he considered their options. Was it too soon to send someone to check with the police? They risked drawing suspicion to their activities if he wasn’t actually there. Did they have the funds necessary to bribe and to bail out their friend? Their most recent dealings with the printer had been expensive…

“Had they been arrested, we would have heard about it,” Courfeyrac said from across the table, drawing his attention back to the present. There were times when he wondered if Courfeyrac had learned to read minds. The limits of what magic could do were still being explored, so it wasn’t necessarily impossible. “We would have heard something, surely.”

“You’re right, of course,” Enjolras conceded.

Courfeyrac reached out to pull his hand away from his hair, clasping it with warm fingers. It took him a moment to realize that the sparks dancing around their hands were his own. Enjolras pulled his magic back, forcing it away. Though he was in safe company now, he did not want to develop a habit for sparking in stressful moments.

“If they don’t return within the hour, I’ll go in search of them myself,” Courfeyrac offered.

The warmth from his friend’s magic spreading through his palm soothed and caressed his nerves until it outshone his worry entirely. “Thank you,” Enjolras smiled, and returned to his work, correcting the places where passion had rendered his handwriting illegible.

Only a quarter of an hour later, there was a crash at the back door. It did not resemble a knock in the slightest, the entire door rattling in its frame from the force of the blow. Enjolras rose, already counting heads. They had prepared for the possibility of discovery. He could only hope it would be enough.The more incriminating papers were stuffed into law textbooks and down shirt fronts. Every spark of magic was hidden, the room dimmed by its disappearance. All stilled and went silent.

Again the door rattled, this time more clearly a kick than a knock. Bahorel’s strained voice followed, carrying clearly into the room, “It’s me, open the door!”

Enjolras looked to Prouvaire, who was nearest to the door. He would not risk all of their lives on the assumption that this was not a trap. Bahorel could easily have a policeman prodding him in the back, though it would be uncharacteristic of him to come so quietly. He held his breath as the poet lifted the latch, but it was only a moment before the door was flung wide.

Bahorel was not alone.

Combeferre was draped over the taller man’s back like a rag doll. His right eye was dark and nearly swollen shut, his glasses missing entirely. There was dried blood beneath his nose and more at his hairline. At first, he appeared unconscious, but every move Bahorel made caused him to wince, sparks falling from his fingers in short bursts of light.

Enjolras was dimly aware of the rush of movement around him as the room reanimated. Someone called for a chair, swearing profusely. Joly nearly tripped over himself trying to cross the room to where Bahorel was carefully setting Combeferre down. Grantaire pressed a glass of brandy into the battered man’s hand. But through it all, he could not tear his eyes away from Combeferre’s face.

“I’m all right,” Combeferre said, squinting up at Joly as the other medical student shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Looks worse than it is.”

Joly ignored him, pulling matted hair away from the wound just above his temple. It still bled sluggishly, and the sight of it turned Enjolras’s stomach. Combeferre pushed Joly’s hands away, hissing with pain, but Joly quickly caught his chin and held him still.

“Not concussed,” Combeferre insisted.

“I’m fairly certain you are,” Joly’s voice was as steady as his hands, practiced in the face of injury.

Bahorel pulled him a chair beside them to catch his breath, “Don’t listen to him. He wobbled like a drunk when he tried to stand earlier.”

Courfeyrac brought a pitcher of water, and Enjolras had to look away as the head wound was cleaned. He was no stranger to blood and wounds, but there was something inherently wrong about Combeferre being injured. The stifled whimpers that escaped him every time the wound was touched only made Enjolras feel worse.

Several minutes passed without a word while Joly continued his work. No one seemed capable of sitting still while the unspoken question hung in the air. It was Courfeyrac who regained his voice first.

“What happened?”

Enjolras looked back, glad to see that the wound was now hidden from view by a makeshift bandage. It was odd to see Combeferre without his glasses, and the man never seemed to take his gaze away from Joly, likely the only person in the room he could see clearly without them.

Combeferre let out a shallow huff of a sigh, and tried to smile, but the motion caused a split in his lip to reopen. “Our contacts at the Polytechnic send their regrets,” he said, as if this explained everything. When it was apparent that no one was satisfied by this answer, he relented and tried again, “They are eager to support the cause, but feared they were already under too much suspicion. It seems—“ He cried out as Joly’s fingers touched an especially tender bruise. Enjolras ground his teeth, his sparks barely contained.

“It seems they were right to be wary,” Combeferre continued, still attempting to fidget away from Joly’s poking and prodding. ‘I was followed on my way back here. Apparently anti-spark sentiment has been increasing at the Polytechnic over the last few months.”

Joly obviously wasn’t terribly concerned with how Combeferre had ended up in his current state, for he took hold of the man’s chin again to keep his patient still while he examined the swollen and blackened eye.

“He sent one of his moths to fetch me,” Bahorel took over. “Got there just in time to chase off the bastards before they could do anything worse.”

“Can you recall their faces?” Prouvaire asked from his perch atop the nearest table.

Bahorel shrugged, “I gave one of them an eye to match Combeferre’s. I can’t imagine any of them will be showing their faces for a while.”

“And no one will be seeking them out for revenge. We cannot stoop to their level of petty violence,” Enjolras found his voice suddenly returned to him, reclaiming control over the room. They could not afford to go searching the city for these men. The risk was too great. “We’ll try the Polytechnic again in a few weeks. There is plenty of work for us to do in the meantime.”

A general murmur of agreement followed. Now assured that Combeferre was well tended to, the group began to resume their earlier conversations, if a little hesitantly. Bahorel remained beside Combeferre, offering him the remains of his shattered glasses.

Still, Enjolras found himself frozen. The Polytechnic was supposed to have been a quick and easy meeting, a chance to strengthen a connection with known supporters. Had he known there would be such danger awaiting, he would have reconsidered the meeting, or at the very least he would not have sent Combeferre alone. He was sparking again, too busy imagining every possible result of his decision to contain them. He had long ago accepted the risks to his own person, but to risk the lives of his friends…

Courfeyrac pulled him from his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder. Enjolras could feel the warmth of his friend’s magic enveloping him, an attempt to once again soothe his frustration and worry. It wasn’t quite enough.

“This should never have happened.”

“it is done already,” Courfeyrac said. “You couldn’t have known. Besides, we all knew the risks. You made sure of it before we left.”

“I should have—“

“Don’t start that. It doesn’t help anyone,” Courfeyrac shook his head and gave him a gentle push in Combeferre’s direction. “Go and talk to him. You’ll both feel better for it.”

Whether it was Courfeyrac’s words or the push that finally reminded his body how to move, Enjolras could not say. Once he had started forward, however, all hesitation disappeared. Bahorel vacated his chair and Enjolras accepted it gratefully.

Combeferre was pale, obviously exhausted from his ordeal, and the bruises on his face were beginning to darken. He squinted up at Enjolras, “I’m all right, I promise. They’re only bruises.”

“You’re concussed,” Enjolras reminded him, discomfort still sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach.

“Debatable,” Combeferre cast a glance in Joly’s direction, as if expecting an argument from across the room. “Regardless, they are minor wounds. They will heal.”

“You shouldn’t have been hurt in the first place. I should never have—“

Combeferre shook his head and extended a hand to him, the occasional spark still appearing, “There is a price to be paid for freedom. You have said so yourself.”

Enjolras took the offered hand in both of his and found he could no longer keep his own sparks at bay. They flickered frantically around his hands, as if trying to bring light back to Combeferre’s weakened flame. “I was referring to barricades, not street brawls in dark alleys.”

“There will be time enough for barricades later. Do not let one meeting gone awry spoil the day.”

Enjolras simply stared at him. How could anyone be so calm after having been beaten and battered? It had to be the concussion, he was almost certain. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Combeferre smiled wearily, “Not entirely, but I will be if Joly has anything to say about it.” He closed his eyes with a sigh. The smile faded. Enjolras thought he saw tears welling in Combeferre’s eyes, but none fell. “If it would bring about the change we’re fighting for…to never have to see another soul Burned Out…I would endure a beating like that a hundred times over.”

The pain behind his voice only tightened the knot in Enjolras's chest, and his mind supplied the images to match such a scenario. For all that he knew their fight was destined to be a long and bloody one, he could not help but wish to avoid any of his friends coming to harm. The very thought was almost too much to bear.

A hand settled on his shoulder, drawing him back from the edge. "Have you told him about Picpus yet?" Courfeyrac asked, pulling up a chair to face them both.

Enjolras shook his head, noting the return of Combeferre's smile as Courfeyrac launched into the tale. He felt the tension begin to drain from his body, until only a few lingering sparks remained. As he waited for the knot in his chest to slowly unravel itself, he let his eyes wander the room.

Bahorel had joined Feuilly and Grantaire in the corner, though the group had rotated to allow everyone to keep an eye on Combeferre at all times. Prouvaire and Bossuet were helping Joly to reassemble the notes he had scattered in his earlier rush to help. The room was warm, and filled with the gentle light of each man's magic.

Enjolras breathed a deep sigh. The price of freedom was high, but none of them would pay it alone.

**Author's Note:**

> In the chapter “Enjolras and His Lieutenants”, Enjolras sends Combeferre to Picpus, and Courfeyrac is sent to the Polytechnic. However, for the purposes of this AU, these two have had their destinations reversed.


End file.
